


Gods and Monsters

by jameee25



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Season/Series 10, moc!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 12:23:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6657604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jameee25/pseuds/jameee25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Spn Writing Challenge on tumblr, for the prompt "Do that again and I'll break your arm."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods and Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal love and gratitude to the amazing marrieddorks, who was an amazing Alpha! reader and helped me get my head out of my ass, and anotherwinchesterfangirl, who did the most brilliant beta work on this fic and held my hand all through it.   
> You are a blessing loveies.

 

The past few weeks have been…different. Not in a bad way though. They were staying mostly in the bunker, taking Cas's advice to lie low for a while. So they spent most of their time chilling - as much as two Winchesters in a confined space could ever chill, that is. Surprisingly, Sam discovered he needed that just as much as his brother did.

It started out weird and uncomfortable. Like a family vacation no one really wanted to be on. They were hesitant with each other, walking on eggshells, and sex was definitely out of the question. Sam was getting close to his breaking point, with Dean being uncharacteristically curt—too polite, too tentative, self-loathing visible in his every action. And he physically flinched every time Sam tried to touch him.

Sam was frustrated, not only due to the lack of sex (though, to be honest, he did think that romp in the sack would do them both a world of good), but the lack of intimacy, which, at least to him, was the whole point of them being on lock-down.   
The need to reacquaint, to reclaim, to reassure himself that Dean was still his, that his brother came out of the other side of his black-eye venture in one piece was overwhelming. Sam was used to jabs and bantering and bad jokes about his hair and his size and his complete worthlessness in the kitchen. He got none of that now. It's like he’d been left with the politically correct version of Dean. And he didn't like it one bit.

One evening, angry and upset and feeling way out of his element, Sam simply sank to his knees under the table and reached out to the fastenings of his brother's jeans. A hand on his shoulder stopped him midway, and he raised his eyes to glance at Dean. He looked wary and defensive and so lost that Sam felt the familiar burn of frustrated tears behind his eyelids.

"What are you doing?" There was no malice to it.

"Dean, I just - let me, please." He reached out again, fingers catching in the waistband of Dean's jeans.

"Don’t you dare feel sorry for me," Dean growled.

Sam let out a snort. "Cut the pity party Dean, it's not working. And that is not what this is about."

"Don’t Sam, I - it's not what you want." The worst part was, Dean really believed it. It wasn't a façade. He actually thought Sam didn't want him, which was the craziest idea in the world. Dean was all he ever wanted. Always. He thought it was a bit funny that after he’d fought so hard for independence, he suddenly needed to be owned, to belong. Deep down, though, he knew that this specific part of him had always been there, lurking under the surface.

"This is the only thing I want," he said and moved in for the kill.

Dean gave up then, let Sam go down on him in that awkward position, with one busted up arm. He didn't curl his fingers in Sam's hair like he usually did, didn't let his mouth run with filth that would turn Sam on like nothing else, but kept one hand steady on Sam’s shoulder, eyes closed, mouth gaped softly. He came with a shout down his little brother's throat, and when Sam crawled back from under that table (yeah, not the sexiest thing he’d ever done) and regained his posture, he was rewarded by a soft smile and a genuine shine in his brother's eyes. There you are, big brother.  
He declined Dean's offer to return the favor - "Nah, I'm good" – and he was, which earned him a raised eyebrow - God, but I missed that - and a smug little smile from Dean.

Things got a little better after that. Easier. They had always felt more comfortable letting their bodies to the talking. It seemed like their fingers and mouths knew how to phrase just the right things, without stammering over half-assed apologies and mutual guilt trips. Dean didn't fuck him face to face though. Which was just fine with Sam, at least for the time being, because he didn't think he could trust his mouth not to say something that would spoil it all, that would burst the fragile bubble they had patched slowly around themselves.

Besides, as a Winchester, the rule of thumb was to never turn your back on anything. So as intimate as it was for them to fuck face to face, they both always got incredibly turned on by the vote of utter trust that came with having someone at your back.

***

Sam didn't care about the mark. They could deal with that later or not at all. Right now, he was willing to settle on any version of Dean, of real Dean, he could get.   
As reassuring as playing house with Dean was, Sam knew it wouldn’t last forever. There were too many things left unsaid, too many thoughts and emotions neither of them would dare bring up, and things weren't a-okay, as it were. His brother was shifting between careful and reserved and total deny-and-repress states, and he spent a lot of his time at the bottom of a bottle.

"We're renewing our vows Sammy," he told him one night, drunk off his ass. They were both lying naked, sated and more than half drunk, on the library floor. It was after a few beers, and the better part of a bottle of whiskey from the Men Of Letters impressive collection, and Dean had finally just bent Sam over one of the tables, taken him fast and strong, and bit into his shoulder so hard he drew blood. He kissed and licked at the wound later, but the look on his face was more pleased than sorry. Sam couldn't tell if the mark was responsible for it or of it was just pure Dean.

Sam had no illusions. He was positive that the reality of what they had just been through, what they were still going through, would come busting through their door, without knocking.

It wasn't a question of if, but when.

And the clock was ticking.

***

_They were perched on Dean's bed (their bed now), watching some Vin Diesel movie (desperate times and all). Sam's arm snuck around his brother's neck, going for subtle distraction, as his other hand pushed to grab at the last of the chips. Of course, as Sam should have learned long time ago, there is no sneaking up on Dean Fucking Winchester._

_Strong, calloused fingers wrapped around his wrist, free of the cast now but not quite fully healed - the hammer, he was holding so strong to that hammer - and all air left his lungs in a second._

_"Do that again and I'll break your arm." Sam didn't recognize his own voice. He also had no idea where the fuck that came from when panic started to sink in._

_His heart felt like it had stopped beating, and he didn't dare look at his brother. Sam closed his eyes, tight, like his four year old self trying desperately not to listen to his father telling him about monsters. But this time, he couldn’t simply tuck his face into Dean's warm middle, the safest place in the world for him. Then and now._

_Shit._

_He tried to push back the memory, but it all came flooding in, battering down all the walls he’d built himself. For his sake, for their sake._

_"Do that again and I'll break your arm," he growled at the restrained demon, wiping her spit from his face. The bitch just laughed, and Sam jabbed his knife into her abdomen._

_"I said, Where. Is. He??"_

_Her face seemed less smug now, the pain evident in her expression. Sometimes though, pain is not enough. Blood was trickling from the wound now._

_He could smell it._

_It could be his answer. He could…just one taste. Perhaps this was the answer all along. This was the missing piece. He’d get his strength back, be rid of the cast and sling, be rid of this insane anxiety fogging his senses, and he’d know what to do. He could find Dean in no time._

_She must have sensed him somehow, because the demon let out a bitter laugh and said, "You should let him go, boy." His anger boiled and he cut her again._   
_This time across her face. He could lean forward and just lick it if he wanted. And oh, did he want to._

_"Shut up."_

_She coughed once, a drop of thick red liquid drew a curvy path down her chin._

_"It's for the best, for both of you. Give up already. Do you honestly think you'll have a fairytale ending? This idealism of yours won't take you far, Sam. He is one of us now. The king has him. And no one knows where they are."_

_She was right. Of course she was. Sam knew it. But he's a Winchester. Giving up is simply not written into his genetic code._

_"I can't." Why the hell was he even answering her?_

_Because the truth was that he could. He had done it not once, but twice. He had given up. He gave it all up for a dog and a home and a life with someone that wasn't Dean. He took a chance on normality, on safe and soft, left behind strong arms and thick fingers that held him, and slammed him against walls and breached into his most private places, both metaphorically and physically. He chose soft spoken conversations and afternoon picnics, pushed aside harsh words and fierce touches, foul mouthed swear words and even filthier sex talk. Punches and bruises, bad jokes and trash movies. Junk food and punk ass music._

_No apologies, no regrets, dirty and bad and wrong in all the right ways._

_He gave up his heart once._

_He won’t do it again._

_"I don't want to," he growled as he slit her throat._

***  
When he finally opened his eyes, it felt like hours had passed, though it was probably mere minutes. Dean was looking at him, expression unintelligible. Sam could trace worry and confusion and guilt. That all-consuming guilt that seemed to be stuck permanently to Dean's face these days.

Sam wouldn’t have it.

“I'm fine," he breathed. "Really Dean. Sorry, I. I shouldn't have-"

His brother looked as if he was searching for words. Always practical, always with his guard on, wanting to comfort him, to reassure him, to keep him safe.

But there was no easy fix for this. Not this time. They were both far and beyond fucked up from the events of the past few weeks. There was no ignoring it now.   
Their wounds were still wide open, bleeding out fear and uncertainty and liability.

Sin.

Shame.

Love. The fucking greatest in the history of all twisted things.

Dean reached out for him, and Sam let him. He buried his face in his brother's neck, taking in his scent, embracing anything he had to offer.

"Sam," Dean whispered, and that single syllable was more than enough at that moment. It's not Sammy. Not yet.

But they'd get there.

And Sam allowed himself to believe. 

  



End file.
